Beneath The Texas Sky

Cover Page

Praise

Other Books By1

Title Page

Dedication

Dear Reader

Part I Texas, 1865

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part II Texas, 1886

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

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About the auhtor

Preview

Copyright

JODI THOMAS

To Wed In Texas

“Jodi Thomas never misses her mark and her latest, TO WED IN TEXAS, is a bull’s eye of a ‘keeper.’”

—
Romantic Times

“Jodi Thomas’s writing is breathtaking.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

“Ms. Thomas never disappoints…she comes up with characters worthy of the title ‘friend’ and plots that sparkle with originality.”

—
Heartland Critiques

To Kiss A Texan

“Compelling…fans will appreciate Thomas’s subtle humor and her deft handling of sensitive topics.”

—
Booklist

The Texan’s Touch

“A warm-hearted tale of a different sort. Fans of Ms. Thomas will long remember this book. Readers are in for a treat!”

—
Rendezvous

Two Texas Hearts

“A wonderful book.”

—
The Romance Reader

“Provocative…sensual…clever and captivating.”

—
Times Record News (Wichita Falls, Texas)

To my mother,
Sally Faye Kirkland Price,
who always believed in dreams for her children

Bethanie Lane bolted out onto the back porch of her aunt and uncle’s hotel in San Antonio. Her breathing outpaced her heart as she rubbed furiously at her arm, feeling as though a serpent had fouled her flesh with its fangs. She rushed down the steps and submerged her arm into the hot washtub water, then began to scrub her skin with harsh lye soap. She would remove the feel of Wilbur’s hand or bleed raw from trying.

After a few minutes, Bethanie’s breathing slowed and she forced her mind to think of other things…of anything except his pawing grip. She brushed back a strand of golden copper hair and watched the spring sun bowing in late-afternoon warmth. The day was almost gone, yet she had another load of laundry to wash. There were never enough hours to complete all the tasks needed to run the dilapidated hotel.

Her torment seemed to grow daily with Uncle Wilbur’s increasing attentions. He had begun so carefully at first, Bethanie thought. A hug lasting only a second longer than necessary. A hand placed to brush accidentally against her. A stare that tried to burn through her clothing when he thought no one was watching. Lately, his advances had become more blatant. Her skin crawled at the mere thought of his touching her with those fat fingers.

Bethanie stared blindly across the back lot. People
passing along the walk appeared to blink in and out of sight between missing slats in the rusty fence. Blue and gray uniforms alternated past. The sons of Texas were returning, many with nothing more than a uniform to call their own.

Bethanie frowned slightly as she saw the defeated, slumped shoulders beneath uniforms of both colors. These men were welcomed by such a chaotic homecoming, but at least they had a place to return. In an effort to forget her troubles, she tried to empathize with their plight. Though little fighting had taken place in Texas, the lack of manpower had eroded this young land. Cattlemen, who had been paid handsomely in Confederate bills, were now penniless. Nomadic Indians roamed the upper half of the state, raging war against all white settlers. Longhorn cattle ran wild with markets impractical to reach, and bordering states panicked because of the Texas Fever the cattle carried. Money was scarce, carpetbaggers were pesky, and the past winter severe. Still, these men returned home. They had soil to replant and families who cared about them.

Slinging a sheet onto the washboard, Bethanie attacked her chore with a zest her body no longer felt. Optimism whispered promises in the breeze as she began to rub the wet sheet back and forth over the bumpy metal washboard. Maybe things would get better as winter ended. Maybe business at the hotel would pick up. Maybe her uncle would forget his game of toying with her. “Maybe? Maybe?” The rhythm seemed to echo as she scrubbed.

Bethanie tossed the last sheet into a clean tub of water as voices drifted between the broken slats. “Her parents were Shakers, you know,” a woman said as two rather plump figures appeared and disappeared between the fence boards.

“They never married,” the other responded. “Just had a baby. Martha told me as much straight out.”

“And Martha should know, being the girl’s aunt,” the first smug voice sounded again. “She said the girl’s folks lived in a group marriage. The poor child probably doesn’t even know which one of them Holy Rollers fathered her.”

“Trash, she is. Nothing but bastard trash.”

Bethanie didn’t have to wait until they mentioned her name to know the object of their scorn. Whirling, she bolted up the steps and slammed the back door before she could hear more. She furiously wiped away the tears that burned her green eyes as she fought to control her anger. All her life she’d heard the same spiteful conversation. Different places, different times, but always the same. Now here, hundreds of miles from Ohio and with her mother long since buried, still the rumors would not die.

For all her twenty years, Bethanie had been a curiosity, a freak, because of her parents. Shakers by religion, they chose to love each other. In a belief where celibacy was the order, both were forced to leave their communal farm. Bethanie’s father abandoned her before she had time for memories of him to form, but Bethanie’s mother patiently bore her shame with pride and dignity while assuring that she and her child survived. She always comforted Bethanie by saying all would pass. She’d cradle her child to her and repeat over and over when times were hard, “To everything there is a season. Wait, my little love, for this will pass.”

Yet, not even coming to live in Texas seemed far enough away. Bethanie was tired of waiting. She clenched her fists to her sides; patience was a virtue running in short supply. Her mother’s teachings of eternal meekness were finding themselves at war with Bethanie’s temper. Unable to rid herself of her volatile emotions, she had become an expert at hiding them.

Bethanie climbed up the back staircase unmindful of
the chipped paint and broken bannister. She halfheartedly kicked at a cockroach darting across her path. This place seemed the edge of the world to her, and she had no money to go farther.

Three months after her mother died, Aunt Martha wrote, inviting her to live with them. When she first came to live with her aunt and uncle, Bethanie thought them an answer to her prayers. But soon after arriving in San Antonio, she realized she had traveled across half a country to be an unpaid servant.

Bethanie moved from room to room, stripping linens and watching the sun sink lower over the small adobe buildings that blocked the view of the river. Her mind forced forward happy memories of her childhood. The mornings watching her mother cook breakfast. The afternoons riding bareback through peaceful green fields. The long nights helping her mother prepare ointments for the sick. Shakers were taught, even as children, to care for the pain of others. Neighbors who would not speak to her on the street never hesitated to call Bethanie’s mother when someone in their family was ill.

“Girl!” a sharp shout sounded from below. Martha’s voice echoed through the hall like the clang of a poorly made bell. “Where are you?”

Bethanie hated being referred to as “girl” almost as much as she hated being yelled at constantly. Hurrying downstairs she tried to compose herself and hide her feelings behind frozen eyes before she faced Aunt Martha. The crafty old woman would spot any anger and misjudge it as defiance. If Martha thought Bethanie unhappy, she would flood her with work as punishment for her ungratefulness. Aunt Martha never set a plate of food before Bethanie without some comment on the cost of feeding one more mouth.

Bethanie had lost several pounds over the past months, yet no one seemed to notice. Her dresses were now old
and faded with wear. They hung on her body like rags, yet she dared not ask for even a few yards of material.

Stepping gracefully into the kitchen, Bethanie lowered her eyes in a gesture she had learned caused Martha the least anger. “Yes, Aunt Martha?” she answered in little more than a whisper, forcing her fingers to uncoil at her sides.

“Well,” Martha snapped. “You sure took your time in coming.” Her aunt was ironing one of her daughter’s elaborate dresses. “It irritates me that you can’t make time to do this simple chore. Allison needs this dress.”

“I was finishing the beds upstairs,” Bethanie answered, knowing her comment would be ignored.

Bethanie glanced over and smiled at Allison, who sat sipping a cup of coffee. Allison was a lovely sunny-white blonde with huge pale-blue eyes. She bore no resemblance to her parents. Even though she was eighteen, she stood under five feet tall, her height giving her a pixie quality. At first glance she seemed childlike, but her ample breasts soon dispelled that aura. Allison had shown Bethanie the only kindness she’d known these past months. Thanks to her, Bethanie did not have to sleep in the dingy storage room. When she had first arrived, Uncle Wilbur wanted her to sleep in the little room off the kitchen, which was already crowded with rubble. Allison insisted she share her room on the second floor, and Wilbur always gave in to his daughter. Bethanie was grateful, for she had feared being alone at night since childhood. Allison seemed oblivious to her plight most of the time, but she was never directly unkind.

Martha grumbled. “We’re leaving tonight for dinner at the Wagner Ranch. Since they didn’t extend the invitation to you, girl, I know you won’t mind tending the front desk while we’re gone. Not that you will have any business.”

“Of course I’ll keep the desk,” Bethanie answered. She
would have liked to add, “How could anyone send me an invitation? You’ve never introduced me to a soul in San Antonio.” But, as usual, she bit back her words and held her features stone hard as she’d been taught all her life to do at the unkindness of others.

“Well, we haven’t much time. Go upstairs and help Allison dress,” ordered Martha. Her cackling voice was a sharp reflection of everything about her. Even Martha’s gray hair did not soften her features, but cut into her navy-black mane like lightning bolts. Her figure bore no gentle curves, only angles of cloth. She referred to herself as large boned, never plump. Bethanie never ceased to wonder how such a cold, dark woman had given birth to beautiful Allison. She was surely spring growing out of a frozen winter woman.

Sighing, Bethanie lifted Allison’s freshly ironed dress and followed her tiny cousin up the back stairs. Bethanie looked forward to an evening without her aunt constantly shouting for her.

Allison’s half-smothered laughter drew Bethanie’s attention as they crossed the landing. “Look,” she whispered. “Bethanie, come quickly and see the man Daddy is checking in.” Allison sighed as if she were a child looking through a candy store window. “I saw him once before when he came to see Daddy. Isn’t he something?”

Bethanie moved to the railing beside her cousin. They could see the desk fifteen feet below. Uncle Wilbur stood smiling at his new guest, his fat cheeks rippling as he showed his yellow teeth. Double chins hung around his neck in folds like a huge flesh-colored bandanna. His stomach and the foul odor of cheap cigars preceded him into any room. But it was his hands Bethanie hated most. They were large and fat, with short, porky fingers extending like plump sausages. She detested each time he reached to pinch her cheek or place his palm on her arm. He only laughed when he saw her pull away in disgust,
as if she were playing a game and he already knew the outcome.

“He’s a dream,” Allison whispered between giggles.

Bethanie drew her eyes to the other man below. He was taller than most men Bethanie had seen. Unlike many males out west who were short and dusty with half-civilized expressions tattooed on their weathered faces, this man carried himself like a gentleman. He had the proud, easy stance of someone accustomed to being in control of himself and his surroundings. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar to her.

The stranger’s clothes clung to his slender frame as if they had been made for him and not bought for a dollar in some general store. Thick black hair hung to his collar in the back and wedged its way across his forehead as he looked down at the register. His classic features spoke of a blending of Latin and European blood. His strong jawline was framed with a short black beard. He was the most handsome man Bethanie had ever seen.

Bethanie watched his square shoulders angle slightly as he signed in. “Who do you think he is?” she whispered, her voice shaking. She felt a sense of loss at never having known anyone like him.

“Who knows for certain,” Allison answered. “He looks dark enough to be Mexican but he’s far too tall. Besides, look at the way he wears his gun strapped low and tight. My guess is, he makes his living with it. It’s a Colt, too. One of the best made.” Both women had learned to size men up by their guns and horses. In this wild country, a man who didn’t have the best of both and know how to handle them wouldn’t live long.

The stranger turned around, moving in long pantherlike strides across the small lobby. As if he sensed being watched, he jerked his head up toward them. Before Bethanie could back away, she found herself caught in his stare. His gaze had brushed across Allison, who
normally drew all the attention, and froze on Bethanie. Dark coffee brown eyes delved deep into her soul, embarrassing her with their intimacy. An alert intelligence molded his face as one dark eyebrow raised slightly.

Bethanie’s face flushed as though they had just spoken their most private thoughts to each other. The knowledge that this stranger would keep her secrets seemed silently whispered in his stare.

An instant later, the gentleman smiled at her, and she felt blood flame her cheeks as though he had touched her. His vision moved over every inch of her face in a motionless caress.

The warm sensation was new to Bethanie and she looked away in embarrassment. When she dared glance back, he was gone like a predawn dream. No man had ever affected her so dramatically. She felt as if she had shared her entire life story with him in an instant, and he had not only accepted her totally, but also incredibly found her without fault.

“I wish I were staying here this evening.” Allison stormed toward her room. She pouted like a small child about to miss a party. “We could open the secret panel and watch him.”

Bethanie followed, smiling at Allison’s outrageous suggestion. As she entered their room, she glanced at the cheap flowery wallpaper, bubbled and yellowed with age. Someone, years ago, in an effort to quiet a bothersome cricket had poked broom-handle-sized dents in several places. Just beyond the wall was the best room for rent. The room Wilbur always gave guests. Allison had long ago shown Bethanie a secret sliding door in the wall.

Bethanie held up Allison’s dress for her as Allison chattered. “Seems a shame to know the panel is there and never use it. I’ll bet it was built by some man so his mistress could sneak between these two rooms.” Allison giggled as Bethanie buttoned the dress.

Bethanie knew Allison loved the thought of a secret romance having occurred in this very room.

“I know I’m a romantic,” Allison laughed as if reading Bethanie’s mind. “Not like you, Bethanie. You reason everything out in your own quiet way.” Allison sighed slightly. “It’s probably for the best.”